Subscribe To "...from the birds and the bees, to family trees..."

Tuesday, 30 September 2014

You well and truly learn something new every single
day.As in really.Every single day.

Cause the key word here, is “day”.

Now we all know the old faithful’s – Valentine’s Day,
Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, etc.

You know.Standard,
garden variety, ordinary days, dedicated to special people or special
occasions.

These are things we’ve grown up with.April Fool’s Day on the 1st of
April, Boxing Day on the day after Christmas.

Though these holidays are honoured, they are not public
holidays, i.e. you still have to go to work and to school.

It is but merely a way of bringing attention to something
of significance.In order to commemorate
something or someone we hold dear.

I remember a few years back hearing about Grandparent’s
Day, and thinking, “This is really pushing it now”.

Not that I don’t think grandparents deserve recognition for
all that they do.But most likely
Father’s Day and Mother’s Day covers them too.Also, this would be a new world holiday.Not something old and recognised like the others.It most likely wouldn’t stick.And though I know that technically Mother’s
Day and Father’s Day hasn’t been around forever, it has certainly been around
for a lot longer than I’ve lived.And garnering
accolades and recognition for parents, was always going to be an easy sell.

Yet, every single day, I happen to come across a new “Day”,
of some or other kind.Special “Days”
are promoted on TV, in print media and social media too.

Many of these are for awesome causes.World Disability Day, World Anti Animal
Cruelty Day, World Deaf Day, World Arbour Day, and so on and so forth.

But sometimes I hear about “Days” and I think to
myself.They’re just making this crap
up.

Literally.Don’t
believe me?Now just take World Toilet
Day, to mark my point.

It gave me a bit of a laugh when I first heard about
it.World Toilet Day – seriously???Bummer! It is a bit like scraping the "bottom" of the barrel.

Until, I gave it a bit more thought.This really is no laughing matter.

I take running sanitation for granted.I have grown up with it.And see it as my due.

But I live in a third world country.Where many of my fellow citizens aren’t afforded
the same luxury.

The simple luxury of flushing.So automatic, I don’t even think about it.

Yet all over the world, but a small percentage of people
are actually fortunate enough to have this basic human right.Which for me, is largely linked to
dignity.Never mind sanitation and
hygiene.

And thus, this year, on the 19th of November, on
World Toilet Day, I shall have a special thought for those less fortunate.And make my kids aware of this too.

I would imagine that World Days such as these, create
awareness.And hopefully force the issue
with governments.Making them realise
that they have a responsibility to their people.And that they are accountable.

Words
are magical like that.They can have
numerous meanings.And depending on the
exact setting, the interpretation thereof can be pretty entertaining.

Interpretation
is also largely affected by the sex and age of the person doing the
interpreting.If you know what I mean.

For
thirteen year old boys, even an innocuous word like, “shoe” could have a
suggestive meaning.And they could most
likely just as easily turn something arb, like “telephone” into something
dirty.Heaven help you when it comes to
slightly more dodgy terms.Like those
reserved for computers. Where it’s all
“memory stick” this, “hard drive” that, “mouse pad” here, and “import”
there.

But
then again, thirteen year old boys are not really known for their
restraint.Or their common sense.And don’t even get me started on appropriate
and inappropriate.They don’t understand
the difference.And have no
comprehension of decorum.Nor are they
able to accurately gage the possible reception they’d receive from their
audience.

However,
back to g-strings…

There
are medieval torture devices, that are more humane.Less uncomfortable.More palatable.Less painful.Easier to fathom.

Thursday, 25 September 2014

I so enjoy all of my kids.Depending on what they’re up to, their attitude, and the amount of lip
they give me, I enjoy some of them more than others.On some days, more than other days.This fluctuates, like the gentle swell of the
ocean.Quite obviously, I completely and
utterly love them all.But at time, to
be honest, the like factor can fade.You
know – the whole fluctuating, gentle swell of the ocean thing.But all in all, I just adore them.

There is something magical about having three kids.A delightful busy-ness that I find
charming.I am grateful for my age gaps,
as well as the sexes of my kids, as they are all in very different phases of
their lives.And I learn something new
about them and about me, every single day.

Perhaps one of the greatest surprises to me, has been the
vast difference in my boys.They are
polar opposites.In every single
way.Yet for the most part, they get
along really well.They have
testosterone in common, if nothing else.

I mean, I knew that all of my kids would be different.The warning signs were there from early
on.Even their pregnancies were
different.

But somehow, after having Luke, and finding out I was
having another boy, I had thought it would be a bit like revisiting Luke as a
baby, toddler and little boy, through Cole.Yet nothing could be further from the truth.

Luke was quiet and shy.Engrossed in whatever captured his attention.He liked factual things.Real stuff.Absolutely mad about dinosaurs, and could name hundreds of them
accurately, by the time he was three.Then he discovered WWI and WWII, and that was it.Book, after book, after book.His favourite at the library has always been
non-fiction.Then at about ten, he
discovered soccer, and life has never been the same.Obsessive.But this is his nature.When he
takes to something, he completely embraces it, and runs with it.Getting all he can from it.Eating it, living it, breathing it.He has a capacity for retaining knowledge (if
only he would apply this to school work), and for remembering intense
detail.His nickname at home is Wiki, at
times.As he is a bit of encyclopaedia
about certain things.But he’s not a
nerdy kid.He is most certainly not an
academic.He has a huge big circle of
friends.And they get together
often.At sixteen, socialising, has
definitely been stepped up a notch.He’s
hell of a naughty.Of the feeding friends
laxatives variety.Of unplugging the
teacher’s computer mouse variety.Of
succumbing to coughing during hair inspection, so he can try and slip past the
beady eye of the teachers, and get away with his longer hair, and bristle beard
and ‘stach in desperate need of a shave.You know – just plain naughty.

Cole on the other hand, doesn’t do subtle.He’s a tornado.He can also get obsessed with things.But more mechanical type things.Whereas Luke was mad about superheroes, Cole
did cars.He did eventually do a very
healthy, very normal superhero phase, but much later.He also eventually discovered dinosaurs.But much later too.His current obsession, is paper jets.And his bedroom looks like a tip.He’s forever doing prototypes of different designs
of paper jets.Using alternating types
and sizes of papers.Playing with
wingtips, and trajectory, angle of flight release, amount of muscle power
needed to throw.Comparing accuracy with
speed, etc.Quite scientific, for a
little kid.He might not be using all of
those words, but from observing him, I can see that it is exactly what he is
doing.

Luke hit puberty very, very early.By twelve, his voice had broken, he was
sprouting hair all over, and I was about as popular as chopped liver.And quite obviously, as the years have passed,
this has got exponential.The hair is
still sprouting, and he’s growing at a rate of knots.I’m hoping that eventually, he’ll catch up
with his feet.But he gets in my car on
the way to school, or going out, and depending on the destination, he smells
pretty awesome.Like he’s shaved, and
used men’s body wash.Deodorant too.Because he has.When I fetch him, depending on the
destination, and what he’s been doing, he can smell pretty rank.Particularly, after hockey practice, or the
gym.When he’s been out with mates, I
sniff for the tell-tale sign of cigarette smoke, alcohol, or girl’s
perfume.I’m not really good at it.Too obvious, and I can’t pick anything
up.Which doesn’t necessarily mean that
he’s not been doing anything.But he
smells like a mini-man.Or a
teenager.

But Cole?Well,
irrespective of the time of day, where we’re going, or where we’re coming from,
the type of weather, or what he’s been doing, Cole always smells the same.He smells of little boy.Of dog.And of sunshine, even if it’s been raining.Of playing.And outside.And running around.Of being hot and sometimes a bit sticky from
running around playing.Always
intermingled, with a hint of citrus.Not
from a bottle, or an aerosol can.But
from eating oranges, and naartjies, minneola’s too.In summer this hint changes a bit, to peaches,
and grapes, strawberries too.

I love kissing him in his neck, and breathing in that
scent.So heart breakingly
familiar.So pure.Yet soon, it will change, and he’ll turn rank
too.As boys do.

But for now, I’m savouring it.Breathing in deep lung fulls of Cole.Imprinting it on my mind, to hold forever
more.Still I know, it won’t last.I’ve forgotten Luke’s little boy smell.And it makes me so sad.

Not that I don’t enjoy his big boy smell.I just don’t get to savour it often.As physical affection with mothers is just
sooo uncool.Something to be endured
under duress.No lengthy hugs allowed.

So this afternoon, I will fetch Cole from school.And give him lots of hugs, as I usually
do.The whole afternoon long.And evening too. He still indulges me, and partakes.Generous with his love.And I’ll sniff his little neck, and smell
that doggy-running-hot-sunshine-outside-little-boy-citrus scent.And try and put it in a little box in my
memory bank, to take out and sniff when I want to, once he’s bigger.

And I’ll actually do the same with Luke.If he’ll let me.Cause soon, he won’t smell like teenager
anymore too.

Tuesday, 23 September 2014

So there I was, pleasantly minding my own business,
enjoying a bit of me-time in a lovely, relaxing bubble bath, when my youngest
stomped into the bathroom.Stomped I
tell you!Never mind knocking, or
quietly asking if he can come in.Like
an invasion, he burst through the door, nearly taking it off the hinges,
banging it against the wall.

And asked me The Question.You know – The Question.

“Am I adopted?”.

My mouth was still flapping open and closed, and I hadn’t
even had a chance to reply, before he said,

“Are you keeping a secret from me?”.

I’m not entirely sure what he was aiming for?Was he hoping I’d say ‘yes’ or ‘no’?

I mean, let’s be honest.We’ve all had that moment where we’ve thought – “Please Lord, let me not
really be related to them.Is there an
escape clause here somewhere?”.

And so, I did the only logical thing.I gave him the honest truth.

“My boy, I can’t lie to you.I’m not keeping it a secret any longer.I’m sorry that I’m the one that has to tell
you, but you’re not adopted.You really
do belong to us.I grew you in my
belly.And Daddy and Mom (that’s what
all my kids call my mom, their granny), were there when you were born.And everyone took lots of photos and a video
too.That baby is you.”.

Still, I wasn’t convinced what he was aiming for.My answer seemed to satisfy him.Yet he demanded that Grant show him the pics
on the computer in any rate.

I remember this so clearly as a child.Wondering if I was actually adopted.If everyone was keeping a secret from me.

And I think it’s probably very normal.And for a while, I think some of us really
cling to that hope.Until you realise
that you do indeed have your dad’s nose.That your hair is the exact same colour as your mom’s.And that your sister looks a bit like you
(maybe she was adopted too?).

I absolutely love my family.The one I was born into.As well as the one I gave birth too.

And I suspect my Cole is delighted that we’re his real
family.Until he becomes a
teenager.In which case he’ll be
seriously bummed, that there is no out.He’s stuck with us.

Monday, 22 September 2014

I find it a little bit odd.But my children seem to be obsessed with their in-holes.To be truthful, it’s really rather boring.

In addition, I think there might be a leak.A possible connection.Cause their out-holes are pretty busy too.

Could the two be related?

They seem to spend an inordinate amount of time concerned
with food, and feeding themselves.It is
a huge big focus in their lives.

I quite simply don’t understand, why I can’t feed them
daily.Once only.Without all of this three-times-a-day-excluding-snacks
nonsense.Once a week would even be
better!

Because due to their obsession, it has become my
problem.To cater to their culinary
needs.

I find this particularly annoying over weekends.When I tend to indulge them a little bit,
with a nice leisurely breakfast, at least once.Perhaps flap jacks, or pancakes.Maybe even waffles.

These breakfasts, tend to run rather late.And I always feel as though I’ve no sooner
finished with the breakfast "fun", and tidying up thereafter, before one of the
hairy horrors asks what we’re doing for lunch???

Seriously???

Personally I think they should take to foraging.Maybe at the neighbours?Grazing at leisure.

And as for their out-holes.Sometimes, I fear they might be upside down.

To the best of my knowledge, the out-holes should be
reserved for excretion.Of rubbish.

But at times they can sprout the biggest loud of drivel
verbally.Out of their in-holes.Droning on and on.

Perhaps in an attempt to quieten their in-holes from
talking utter rubbish, I should rather focus on feeding them instead.

Despite the fact that it is a thankless never ending
task.Costing time and money.

And when did they get so fussy?More-over, is it possibly my fault?

This one likes a thin spread of butter on school sarmies,
that one likes it thick.This one
prefers it toasted, but it must please cool down, before I sandwhich wrap it so
it doesn’t sweat.

They all love my spaghetti bolognaise.But two of them want to know if can they
please skip the bolognaise and only have the plain pasta instead???

Mushrooms, vs no-mushrooms.No onions please.For some.Loads of pepper for one, but nothing for the
others.Egg on toast a winner for two of
the three.But one quite simply can’t
even look at it.And so it goes.Meal after meal.

Which actually points to one thing and one thing only.They should all service their own bloody
in-holes.And leave me out of it! So I can service mine.

Friday, 19 September 2014

It is amazing how certain things fade with time.How the memories become hazy.And glossed over with a gentle sheen and shine.

No longer quite as sharp.Quite as defined.Quite so
accurate…

Grant and I did a spot of spring cleaning over the
weekend.Going through loads and loads
of old boxes.Filled with a whole host
of goodies.Mostly sentimental
stuff.My very first dress and pair of
shoes.My baby blanket.My kids’ first art works.Old cards.Lots of mementoes holding special meaning and significance.

Others might look at it, and see a bunch of old
papers.Faded with time.Crumpled.Looking a bit worn.

But this is not so.These old, seeming worthless papers, contain magic.My magic.More valuable than gold.At least
to me.

Cause amidst the many treasures I found, were all of my
love letters to Grant.So very, very
sweet that he kept them.

These date back to the very beginning of my matric year,
when I was a brand new seventeen year old.All bright eyed and bushy tailed.Optimistic.Naïve.Open hearted.And experiencing my very first true love.Actually my only true love.Right in the thick of an abundance of
hormones.Practically seeping out of
every pore.Filled with idealistic
dreams of life and love.Glass half
full.And all of that.

And looking over these letters, one thing became blatantly
clear – I WAS A BLOODY STALKER!!!

I cringe just looking at them!Haven’t even had the heart to read them.It will be too mortifying.

All needy, and desperate.Over eager and just so available.Willing.Ripe for the
picking.And pick my Grantie did.

I offered myself on a platter.Heart, body and soul.

Really!No shame
whatsoever!!!

It’s like I had no filter.Every single corny romantic piece of hogwash I’d ever read by the time I
was seventeen, was squeezed into those letters.In addition, every single romantic movie, or soppy TV ad, somehow
featured largely too.

I clearly had a vision in my head of what love looked
it.What it meant.What it would entail.

Not only did Grantie keep the love letters, he kept every
blessed card.

The letters are painful to look at.Meticulously decorated.I must have used tons of coloured khoki’s and
pens.Spent hours and hours decorating
them colourfully.In time I was meant to
spend studying.I’m not even arty, and
looking back, I must confess to being a bit surprised at the creativity I used.

I’m guessing that if I were to indulge and read them, this
is what I would most likely find - loads of lamenting about having to
study.How boring school was.How hard life treated me.What a twit my brother was.How annoying my sister was.How completely and utterly out of touch and
embarrassing my parents were.How I
didn’t have nice clothes.How outdated
and embarrassing our house was.How mortifyingly
odd, uncool, and strange my family was.Did
there really have to be so many of them?I didn’t get enough pocket money.Having a curfew was so lame.Whinging about piano practice and mean teachers.

On and on and on I droned.What a bore!

And judging by the amount of letters, and the
I’m-so-available-and-desperate drivel I was writing (okay so I did have a quick
glance), I’m extremely surprised the boy didn’t run a mile.Even worse, I sound equally as self-involved
as my teenage son.Confident that I knew
more than all of the adults in my world put together.Moaning about exactly the same stuff he moans
about.Saying the same things.

It’s like a time warp.Put on repeat.

And all I can think, is that my mom’s biggest wish must’ve
come true.The wheel has turned.

And I’m now the one suffering at teenage hands.Though to give her her due, she never really
looked pained at the time.But in
hindsight, I’m fairly surprised she didn’t turn to drink.

Maybe sometime, I’ll read these letters.For now I’m too embarrassed.Not willing to do more than gloss at them.And take a pic from afar, to show you my
decorating prowess.

I’m sure the only missing factor, is the sense of
smell.Have a certain degree of
confidence, that these letters, were rather liberally bathed in perfume.Or mostly likely cheap deodorant.

But how blessed am I not?I’m sure that many of those painful, and terribly vulnerable wishes,
expressed in my letters have indeed come true.

I married that boy.And I did have his babies.Exactly the three that I wanted.I’ve stayed his best friend.And
I still enjoy his company.We have
lasted.

We live in a little house.Like a real grown-up, I do grocery shopping and cook supper.We’ve had us some kids.We have pets.We both drive a car, which means that eventually I did get my licence.We have braai’s in the summer.And I’ve finally learnt how to crack an egg
without breaking it.We both earn money.We visit our folks over weekends.We spend time with our friends.Some of them still the same people, from way
back then.We pay bills.I fill in school forms.I help with homework.He watches the news on the TV every night,
like an adult.We put in petrol.We have computers.I don’t have to practice the piano
anymore.We don’t have a curfew.We can kiss and hug in front of our
parents.We don’t have to do our own
homework anymore.We lock up when we go
out, like the responsible people we’re trying to be.He has tools in his garage.I have an electric beater, and know how to
work the washing machine.

Basically, I’m living the dream.

This is all I ever wanted.And I got it.

Trips overseas would’ve been nice.A fourth baby too.A big double story house with a pool.Maybe a holiday cottage.

Wednesday, 17 September 2014

When encouraging your kids to do certain things, what
approach is best?Threatening with dire
consequences and punishments?Bribing
them to do your bidding. Or coaxing them
with the possibility of a reward at the end of it all?

Personally I think the carrot wins every time.Why wouldn’t it?

Cause I think with the carrot approach, you engage.You encourage honesty, as opposed to deceit
in order to avoid the much dreaded dire consequences and punishments tact.

Kids work towards a goal.And isn’t working every day, at a job, exactly the same thing?The lure of the salary check, waiting at the
end of each month?The main reason for
pitching up daily, and doing your thing.Cause without the buck at the end of the month, there surely is no point
to it all.

So, I’m definitely more a carrot type of girl.But I like to shake things up.I don’t like calling it bribery, which is
kind of, “If you do this, then mommy will buy you this or give you that”.It sounds pretty nasty to me.A bit like bullying to get my own way.Which to be truthful, in essence it is.

I prefer to look upon it as an incentive scheme.That has to be earned over a period of time.A form of enticing my kids to do their
bit.To play their part.To toe the line.

I mainly battle with one kid – the littlest of the
lot.He has to be gently coaxed, with a
carrot at all times.

Being simply good and behaving, for the express purpose of
being good and behaving seems like a pointless exercise to him.Having ADHD means that he loses interest
fast.Very often, can’t stick to
something.And lacks staying power at
the best of times.

Working towards something he really badly wants, is often
the small difference between me losing my marbles.And hanging on to them with a thread.

The past week, saw him on his absolute best behaviour at
school.He was working towards a plastic
soccer ball incentive.The type that
costs R10.That he could buy with his
own saved up birthday money.The type of
ball he would kick over the neighbour’s wall on the first afternoon.Or kick high up into the trees.Or over inflate with the ball pump at
home.Or let the dogs chew.Or sit on and pop by accident.(All these scenarios have actually
happened.Most more than once.Twice.Or thrice.)

Yet, it tickled his fancy.Wouldn’t break the bank.And was
a pretty harmless carrot I thought.Additionally,
when I came up with the suggestion, he was delighted.And thus he really, really wanted it.And thought it worthy of his efforts.

A win-win.For me.For Cole.And for the long-suffering and very patient Mrs Fick.

This week, sees him working towards a packet of jelly snake
sweets.A bit more pricey at about
R12.Yet so far so good.We seem to be on track.

And I’m suspecting we’ll hopefully be in for yet another
good week.A win-win.For me.For Cole.For the long-suffering
and very patient Mrs Fick.As well as
for my sweet tooth.I don’t really
believe in rewarding with food treats, but the end justifies the means.And Cole subscribes to sharing.So I presume that all of us with get a snake.

It is hard knowing what to do.And how to motivate them to deliver their
best.What works for one kid, won’t work
for another.What is deemed suitable as
a reward this week, might not work at all the next.

Perhaps the biggest lesson as a parent, is to remain fluid.To interact.And to make them a part of it.Which will have the additional reward of having them engage. Feeling inclusive. Working towards a mutually beneficial goal. Letting them feel like they have an input and can make a decision for the greater good.

Which they do.Good behaviour
vs bad.

Letting my mind drift to next week’s incentive so
long.Perhaps yet another plastic soccer
ball.The type that costs R10.That he could buy with his own saved up
birthday money.The type of ball he
would kick over the neighbour’s wall on the first afternoon.Or kick high up into the trees.Or over inflate with the ball pump at
home.Or let the dogs chew.Or sit on and pop by accident.(All these scenarios have actually
happened.Most more than once.Twice.Or thrice.)…..

Tuesday, 16 September 2014

Apparently
he’s pleasant to adults.Polite and full
of respect.No mention of disdain, or
feelings of entitlement.Furthermore,
he’s helpful.Kind.Happy to lend a hand.Takes his dishes to the kitchen.Eats what’s on his plate.Is nice to younger siblings.Doesn’t back chat.Or whinge, moan and groan.

Imagine
my surprise, when I found out he was mine.

Isn’t
that just rich!

You
spend a lifetime raising a child.Years
and years.And quite often the reward
you get is dubious at best.Questionable
at most.It isn’t tangible.Or quantifiable.Especially when that kid is a teen.

You
get grumbles.And bickering with
siblings.Complaints about what he
doesn’t have.How his friends have more
freedom.More pocket money.Cooler clothes.

And
then you hear from another Mom, “He’s a perfect delight!”.

And
you have to stop yourself from saying, “Are we talking about the same child?”.

It’s
funny that.Though in a way I suppose it
makes sense.

At
home they can test the boundaries.They
know that they’re loved.Accepted.Unconditionally.

But
at a friend’s house?They pull out all
the stops.Apply all those endless
lessons, manners, and etiquette niceties you’ve taught them.

All
in all, they’re really rather lovely.

So
here’s the thing – I’d like to be a fly on the wall.To witness this for myself.To be able to fully believe it.

The
same thing goes for all of my kids.I
get the attitude.The nagging.The worries about them being polite, and
chewing with their mouth closed.Saying please
and thank you.Remembering to hang up
their towel.

Whereas
the moms of friends?Well they get my
kids at their very best.The kids I’ve
been trying to raise.

But
I get it.Cause in return I get their
nice kids, when they’re at my house.

And
when I tell their moms, they too say in disbelief, “Are we talking about the
same child?”.

Saturday, 13 September 2014

There seems to be a bit of a hair pattern emerging
here.But despite the fact that my
previous post also regarded hair, I’m not obsessed at all.Or not too much in any rate.

The point is just this – at forty one years of age, I’ve
got lots to be grateful for.

I’ve got my health, my fabulous family, I live in a beautiful
area, I have my passions, I’m creative, etc.Currently I’m even happy with my weight – a rare occurrence.

So, all in all, lots to be thankful for.

But like everyone else, I’ve also got my fair share of
problems.Nothing insurmountable.Just the usual
run-of-the-mill-type-of-things.We’ve
all got them.Money, lack of time,
constant rushing around, too much to do in too little time, the demands of
raising cheeky kids, and so on and so forth.

And I’ve just realised that it’s all about seeing the good
in life.In appreciating the
wonder.Giving thanks for goodness.Staying positive.

It really is the small things, that end up being the big
things.

And thus, amidst it all, I’ve come to the conclusion, that
of all the things I worry about, at least going grey is not one of them.

Can’t imagine anything worse.Well, technically I could.But going grey is most likely pretty
grim.A visible reminder that you’re ageing,
and starting to get past your prime.That time is marching on, and that the okay-ish looks are coming to an
end.

Yip!Sooooo glad I’m
not going grey.

Instead, I’m going silver.

Which is really kind of cool.

I told my daughter I’m going to save a bunch on
accessorising from now on.

I’m wearing my bling in my hair.Way easier!

No need for messy,
do-these-earrings-match-with-this-top-nonsense?Or, which-tacky-bracelet-would-look-nice-with-these-jeans?Then there’s the,
should-I-go-with-white-or-red-today?Cause we simply all know that silver is just sooo in.In fact, it’s the new gold.Except it’s silver.And nicer.More universal.Just plain better
in every single way.